The Sociopath and the Doctor
by Spark Writer
Summary: A series of day to day Sherlock one-shots. I aim to focus on Sherlock and John's lovely FRIENDship, rather than creating slash fics. I'm having great fun writing these; if you have a request, you need only ask. :D K plus just for good measure.
1. An Experiment Gone Badly Wrong

"John, have you seen my luminol stock solution?"

John glanced up from his laptop and rubbed his forehead, mentally searching the flat. After several second's thought, he shook his head.

"Sorry, no. I haven't. It's got to be sitting around in that mess somewhere, Sherlock." He gestured toward the kitchen table, its surface completely and permanently obscured by beakers, crucibles, and Erlenmeyer flasks.

"No, it's not," Sherlock returned, shortly. "I distinctly remember putting it down—ah." He stooped to snatch up a small bottle with an expression of deep satisfaction. "Finally."

John snorted and allowed himself to slip back into work, this being his latest case blog.

"Oh for God's sake," Sherlock barked, jolting John from his musings. "My last sterile alcohol pad's dried out. John, would you—"

"No."

"I need one!"

"No," John repeated, exasperated. "No, Sherlock. Here's a proposition: why don't _you_ walk yourself down to the pharmacy and get it?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, their feline slant becoming more pronounced. "Never mind, I'll do without it." With an irritable twitch, he spun on his heel and strode back to the kitchen.

"What exactly are you trying to do, anyway?" John closed his laptop with a small snap and leaned back in his over-stuffed armchair, utterly content. No amount of Sherlock's demands would induce him leave to this spot.

"The answer should be perfectly obvious." Sherlock bent over the table, mixing up a chemical concentration, his oversized goggles preventing John from taking seriously anything the detective had to say.

"Yeah, well—it's not. Would you mind not leaving me to deduce the answer on my own? It's not exactly confidential, is it?"

Sherlock straightened, removing his goggles and lifting a mundane looking black shirt from a kitchen chair. "This, John, is a shirt with possible traces of blood, though undetectable at the moment due to the faulty nature of the naked eye, and also due to the colour of the shirt."

"Because it's dark?"

"Obviously." Sherlock lifted the shirt to his nose and glowered darkly. "Isn't it hateful? I'm wasting invaluable time, John. I could be harassing Anderson right now."

"So, what're you doing to it?"

"The luminol stock reaction is used by forensics to detect traces of blood at crime scenes. I mix luminol powder with hydrogen peroxide and hydroxide. The luminol solution is sprayed where blood might possibly be found, and the iron from the hemoglobin in the blood serves as a catalyst for the chemiluminescence reaction that causes luminol to glow, so a blue glow is produced when the solution is sprayed where there is blood. Only a tiny amount of iron is required to catalyze the reaction; unfortunately, the blue glow lasts only for about thirty seconds before it fades, which gives me only half a minute to search for the victim's plasma."

"That's—that's…wow. More than I ever wanted to know about chemistry, Sherlock."

"Honestly, John, it's primary school stuff. You should know this!"

John grinned and propped his elbows on his knees. "So you were the geek that spent all his time shut up in the school science lab, then?"

"Shut up." Sherlock's brows furrowed as they always did when he felt acutely embarrassed.

He jerked back to his experiment, whilst John went back to smirking, unable to refrain himself from making use of this infrequent mortification on Sherlock's part. He rubbed his forehead again, aware of a burgeoning headache. He wondered if he might be getting a cold.

"Sherlock, do we have any aspirin—"

"Would you mind shutting up until I get this potassium ferricyanide off my fingers?"

"Of course, yes. We wouldn't want that, would we?" John muttered the latter sentence under his breath.

"I heard that."

"Sorry, I didn't know you were actually listening."

Sherlock grimaced, caught out. He was carefully dripping clear liquid into a test tube when the solution burst into spontaneous flames—though not before dissolving into brilliant white dust.

The alabaster powder erupted and settled neatly in Sherlock's dark curls. He might have just aged forty years.

"Jesus, Sherlock…" John trailed off, absorbing the image; Sherlock with greying hair, goggles, and a glower.

"Wrong compound," said Sherlock.

"Sorry, what?"

"It was the wrong compound." Sherlock shook his head wildly, putting John in mind of wet dog. "Yes, it should have been iron, not copper. God, that was exceedingly stupid." He looked around at his flat mate, his mouth set in a thin line. "_What._"

John's face had slowly split into a grin. "Come on, have a sense of humor! I feel like I've just met your grandfather."

Sherlock wrenched off his goggles and threw them unceremoniously onto the sofa. "Stop being an idiot, John."

"I can't," gasped John, now convulsed with mirth. "I'm looking at one. A proper one."

Sherlock stared at John, and John stared back. In the next moment, both the detective and the doctor had lapsed into irrepressible chuckles.

"I look like a nutter, don't I?" Sherlock groaned, yet still smiling.

"It's a big improvement," John laughed. "And now I know I have something to look forward to in future years."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but John saw the amusement dancing in them. There was a knock at the door, and John strode over to open it. Mrs. Hudson flitted in, looking anxiously about. "Oh, boys, I thought I heard a noise…" she faded off, staring open-mouthed at the state of Sherlock's hair. "Is this to do with one of your bloody experiments?" she berated. "For a moment I thought I'd have to run to the shop and buy you anti-dandruff shampoo."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson, but I believe that won't be necessary." Sherlock flashed her a genuine smile, and she laughed.

"Are you quite sure you're alright?"

"I'm brilliant," said Sherlock. John nearly chuckled, wondering if the implied double meaning was merely a figment of his imagination.

And with that, Sherlock Holmes went back to his iron compounds with even pausing for a mirror.

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**Reviews would be lovely!**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	2. A Tear in his Trench Coat

"Turn around."

"What?"

"Turn." John rolled his eyes. "Sherlock, I'm not going to strangle you, just turn around."

Sherlock threw John a mildly suspicious glance. "What are you trying to do?"

"This," said John. He reached down to tug gently at the hem of his flat mate's tweed trench coat. "I don't know if you can make it out at this angle, but—"

"There's a tear."

"Well, yes. I thought I saw it yesterday, but then I forgot to mention it."

"You shouldn't have told me. I could have figured it out on my own; _much _more interesting."

"Fine. Next time, I'll let you dash around London with your coat shredding to bits." John sighed and pulled on his own coat, shivering in the slight chill that leaked in around windows and under doors. "So what're you going to do about it?"

"About what? The coat? It's not priority, John. I've got more important things to—"

"Don't give me that. You love this coat!"

"I don't _love _anything, John."

"Mm? What about your violin? Or how 'bout that skull?"

"Stop talking." Sherlock slipped out of his coat, inspecting its torn hem the way a parent might examine their child's scraped knee.

"Just answer this. If the flat was on fire, would you take the violin or the coat?"

"Neither." Sherlock deposited the trench coat on his desk, and absent-mindedly straightened his scarf in the wall mirror.

"Tell me you're joking." John smirked, eyeing the navy scarf. "You'd take that?"

"I have no idea to what you're referring," Sherlock remarked, going faintly pink. "Anyway, we'll have to find a way to repair it at some point."

"We?" John folded his arms. "That's not my bloody coat, it's yours, and if anyone's going to fix it, it's going to have to be you."

Sherlock cast John an appraising glance. "Mrs. Hudson can sew."

"Oh? And how did you deduce that?"

"Simple. Some of the buttons on her jumper are tied off with different colours than others. Obviously no clothing brand would do that on purpose."

"Yeah, but, sewing a button is whole lot different than repairing a torn coat."

Sherlock sighed loudly. "Look, if you can read one word, you can read them all."

"Stop being so bloody enigmatic, will you? What does that even mean?"

"If Mrs. Hudson can sew a button, she can sew this!"

John cocked his head. "Are we seriously having a conversation about a button, Sherlock?"

The detective grinned.

John glanced at his wristwatch and grimaced. "We're about ten minutes late to meet Lestrade, you know."

"He'll survive." Sherlock headed for the coat closet, then stopped, mid-stride. "Phone him, will you?"

"And say what?"

"Ask if he knows of any choice needle workers in the area. I'll be following up with my own research." Sherlock reached the closet, and drew out extraordinarily ugly anorak.

John, though busying his fingers with Lestrade's number, kept his eyes fixed on Sherlock, waiting to see if he had the nerve to put the coat on.

Unfortunately, he did.

"That…doesn't look like you."

"Shut up."

"I'm not trying to be judgmental or anything, Sherlock! It just looks a bit dodgy on you, that's all."

"Agreed," said Sherlock, pulling at the waterproof material with disgust, "but do in fact shut up."

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**Ah...I really am in desperate need of a trench coat. =D I adore your thoughts, comments, and suggestions! **

**-Spark Writer-  
**


	3. A Most Important Discovery

It was December; John had spent a tedious several hours dragging boxes of ornaments up to the flat from the basement. He was exhausted. A lilting strain of an unfamiliar violin melody drifted through the air, and John imagined Sherlock standing before the window, bow in hand.

Lazy git.

"Sherlock, has it ever occurred to you that I might not want to drag loads of stuff upstairs without any help?" He leaned against the doorframe of 221B for support, and wiped his perspiring forehead.

"I'm busy."

"_Busy?" _John hauled the last of the boxes into the sitting room and lurched into a chair. "Really, Sherlock, you need some perspective."

"As do you. You obviously have no appreciation for the arts, furthermore, you don't count 'thinking' as busy. That's my life, John—I _think. _Without that, my brain would rot!"

"Oh, fine." Not in the mood to battle with Sherlock's ingenuity, John staggered to his feet and strode toward the kitchen.

"Two sugars," called Sherlock, settling the violin under his chin.

"I'm not making coffee."

"Of course you are." Seeing John's chagrined expression, Sherlock smirked and burst into an exasperatingly chipper tune.

Grudgingly making two cups of coffee, one with sugar, the other without, John slammed the former onto Sherlock's desk and bent over the last unopened box.

"Thank you."

Incredulous, John swung around. "What?"

"You heard me perfectly well." Sherlock nodded to the mug.

"You're welcome," muttered John, albeit reluctantly. He began sifting through the bobbles, trinkets and tangled spheres of fairy lights. Near the bottom of the storage box, a leather-bound book resided, its cover dusty and a bit scratched. Intrigued, he lifted the book from the box and opened it. The first page had a message in neat, navy penmanship: Property of Mycroft Holmes.

A furrow appeared between John's brows. He turned the page. There, in full—but rather grainy—colour, was a young Mycroft, standing pompously in a sunlit yard. Even more captivating, though, was the lithe figure in the background, a teenage boy with dark hair. Leaning so close to the photo that his nose brushed the page, John squinted, desperate to make out the anonymous individual. He recognized those cheekbones, though that face was rounder, more youthful. The boy's dark hair was longer, nearly to his chin. It was parted on the left; obscuring one grey, almond-shaped eye. He stared at the camera, unsmiling, almost defiant.

"Sherlock." John tore his gaze from the photograph and cleared his throat. "Sherlock!"

"_Yes_, John?" Annoyed, Sherlock concluded his song with a tempestuous screech and turned around. "What is it?"

Wordlessly, John held up the photo album.

"Oh dear god—is that…" Sherlock's eyes widened slightly, and he hastened to John's side. "It is!" he whispered, scanning the page in shock. "I haven't seen this album in fifteen years!"

"Sherlock," repeated John, "That's you. You, standing behind Mycroft, sort of to the left."

"I know it's me." Sherlock tugged the book from John's grasp, and John could have sworn he'd seen his flat mate's ears flush scarlet. "I look so idiotic with my hair like that," he murmured, more to himself than anyone.

"You don't look much different," John remarked. "You still try to look like a mysterious prat in press photos."

"Those are different!" Sherlock barked. "I turn up my collar so I'll be less recognizable by the general public—"

"No, you turn up your collar because it makes you look all secretive."

"I prefer 'enigmatic.'"

"Same difference."

"It's not the same at all!" Sherlock poked his deerstalker; the hat was half-buried under reams of paper. "At least you don't have photographs of yourself wearing this…_ear hat, _with—"

"It's a deer stalker, Sherlock—"

"With the heading '_Hatman _and Robin!'" Sherlock snatched a page from The Times and brandished it before John.

"You're not the only one in those pictures," John reminded him. "Why do I always have to parade around with you? Because stupidity works in pairs?"

Sherlock tossed the paper onto the floor. "Never mind that…just—I'd rather you not look at these photos in too much detail."

"Why, are there baby pictures of you in there, or something?"

Sherlock scowled. "No, _John, _I just don't happen to be the photogenic person."

"Right, okay. I respect your wishes." Grinning, John backed away from Sherlock and lifted his mug to his lips, hot steam rising in faint spirals. "Cheers," he said, winking.

With obvious reluctance, Sherlock lifted his own mug. "Cheers. But you know, John," he began, as the shorter man took a sip of his coffee, "I'll never rest until I locate every last photograph of yours. Or possibly old love letters…"

John lips twitched. "Want to bet?"

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**How much fun would it be to come across Sherlock's old school photos? =D**

**Review?**

**-Spark Writer-**


	4. Snowfall

"John, come here!"

At the moment, John was enjoying a blissfully deep sleep, and had absolutely no intention of leaving the warmth of his bed.

"John!"

"What is it…?" he moaned.

"That's the whole point! I'm not going to tell you until you see it for yourself."

Employing one of his choicest swear words, John staggered out of bed and into the sitting room. "What is—wow." He looked past Sherlock's dressing gown clad figure to the window, and smiled.

The first snowfall.

Abnormally large flakes drifted past the windows, glimmering in the early morning light. Mixed with this old-fashioned charm were the usual agitated honks of cabs and lorries maneuvering the morning traffic on Baker Street.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" asked Sherlock, with a note of appreciation in his voice.

"Back up—did you just call something _beautiful?_"

"What's wrong with that?" John saw the defensiveness springing back into the detective's eyes.

"Nothing! Nothing's wrong. It's just—that was a bit unexpected, er, coming from you."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Want to go out in it?"

Sherlock stared at John as though he'd gone mad.

"Oh, come on; don't pretend it hasn't crossed your mind." John gestured toward Sherlock's cobalt dressing gown. "Go put on some trousers, will you? Even if you don't want to go outside, I am." With that, he turned and went in search of his cable knit jumper.

It was a great surprise, when, coming back into the living room, John saw Sherlock fully dressed—two tone leather gloves, trench coat and navy scarf. "Alright, then." He grinned at his flat mate and led the way down the stairs and into the chilly Saturday morning.

Small snowdrifts had accumulated at either side of the street; occasionally a pedestrian would slip and fall into one of the drifts, scowling. John took a deep breath of the crisp, cold air, aware of the snowflakes landing in his hair. He turned to Sherlock. "When you were a child, did you play in the snow?"

"A bit." Sherlock smoothed his scarf. "Mostly I outsmarted Mycroft while he shouted abuse."

John laughed. "Yeah, he doesn't really seem like the sort to enjoy a snowball fight."

"Did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Did you enjoy snowball fights as a child?" Sherlock's expression was remarkably similar to that of when he conducted a scientific experiment.

"Definitely! Harry and I had loads of them. In fact…" He scooped a handful of snow from the nearest snowdrift. "…I still do."

"You really don't want to throw that," Sherlock informed him, quite calmly. "Really, you don't."

"Why's that?"

"You forget, John, that I was the one that outsmarted Mycroft, _not _the other way around." Sherlock flicked his coat collar up against the sudden wind, and John rolled his eyes.

"Okay. I'm letting you off just this once, got it?" He gave Sherlock a significant look, and was certain the taller man smiled. A split second later, John jolted forward, having been bumped by a group of children. The oldest looking one, a boy, winced.

"Sorry, sir."

"That's quite alright." John winked at them, seeing their impressive collection of sleds. "You lot going to the park, then?"

"Yeah, we're gonna have loads of fun today!" They waved cheerfully at John as they departed, giggling and chattering.

"That was nice."

"What d'you mean?" John glanced questioningly at Sherlock.

"You're good with kids. I can see the way you talk to them…look at them. You want one."

"Well, yeah, sure. Someday." John averted his gaze. "What about you?"

Sherlock laughed rather resentfully. "It's not that I hate children—I just don't know how to speak to them, or interact with them, or—make them feel better about anything."

"It's obvious you've given this some thought."

Sherlock cast John a familiar _what are you implying _look. "No, John, I haven't. It's a fact. An inevitability."

"_Sher_lock. You're selling yourself short. I bet you'd feel different if it was your own kid we were talking about. It's not true, you know, when you say you don't have a heart. It's obviously not true, to me at least."

"Well, it's not obvious to the rest of the world." And with a swish of his coat, Sherlock marched away.

The door marked 221B swung shut with a slam.

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**Hey, everyone! Thanks for your support and reviews. It means a lot! Requests, anyone?**

**-Spark Writer-**


	5. Heartless

**If you have a request, you know what to do. =)**

**I do not own Sherlock Holmes. Moftiss/Doyle do.**

* * *

In a swirl of flashing scarlet lights and crime scene tape, John saw Sherlock dashing toward him, his already pale face almost colorless.

"Sherlock—are they…?"

"Yes. I knew they would be." The detective gave a sigh that was more of a groan, and looked up at the night sky that stretched above London. "Sometimes I hate it when I'm right."

John's stomach had plummeted to his toes; the fresh knowledge that a man and woman lay dead nearby created a sick taste in his mouth.

"John, they have a daughter."

"Oh my god, they do?" John craned his neck around Sherlock, attempting to catch a brief glimpse of the child.

"She's six years old, and was at her friend's house at the time of her parents' murders. Named Coralline, I believe."

John swore under his breath.

"She arrived here moments ago."

"Well, what can we do?" John was panic personified. "She's probably in shock, Sherlock! There's got to be some way we can—"

"Listen, John—there's nothing we can do at this point. It is what it is."

"There's a little girl here who's just found out her parents are dead—and you're just going to walk away? Like you _always do?_"

Visibly hurt, Sherlock spoke again. "Having a job like this…you learn quite early on that fussing over these people won't help them. It only makes them weaker and needier, which is fatal in this situation! I won't be anyone's crutch, John. They're going to have to cope just like everyone else, do you see?"

"No, I don't," John said shortly. "If you'd just found out both your parents are dead, what would you need?"

"Nothing. I wouldn't have placed all my strength in other people in the first place. People are stupid. They make this mistake time and time again."

"Stop being so… cold! I'm sick of it!" John leaned toward Sherlock, truly angry with the man for perhaps the first time in his life. "I know you're lying, so stop it! Whatever it was that caused you to become so emotionally stunted isn't my problem, and it isn't Coralline's!" John glared into Sherlock's grey eyes, furious, then turned away and roughly ducked under the yellow tape.

"Where are you going?"

"To talk to her!"

"John, stop."

"What!"

Sherlock lifted the crime tape and dipped under it. "I enjoy this. I enjoy a good murder, not because I get a thrill out of seeing dead people—seriously, what could be more dull than a _body—_but because my brain thrives on unanswered questions, on _enigma! _Do you really think I'm the right man to talk to that girl, John?"

John folded his arms across his chest. "That's an excuse."

"It's a fact."

"So you feel nothing right now?"

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "Whatever it is you're trying to prove John—you're failing magnificently." He flicked his collar irritably, and walked away, in Lestrade's direction.

John sighed. It seemed that a great deal of their conversations of late ended this way. Already, he regretted shouting at his flat mate. But he couldn't shake the feeling that there was a side of Sherlock that he didn't know.

A darker side.

Somehow, the detective managed to be both childish and advanced, courageous and callous, fierce and dashing, unsympathetic and affectionate.

John shook his head, suddenly exhausted. He hadn't time to muse over the inner workings of Sherlock.

…An orphan had been born tonight.

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**This is definitely a more intense piece...I did enjoy writing it, though. Keep in mind that these are just one-shots, not correlating chapters. For some reason, this ch. and the last seem to go together. Not purposely, though! Just the whole child thing. Thanks for your support!**

**-Spark Writer-**


	6. Initially He Wanted to be a Pirate

"So." John grinned at Sherlock from his spot on the sofa. He'd been itching to mention this particular topic for quite a while—since a most enlightening conversation with Mycroft, actually—and would wait no longer.

"What?" Sherlock looked up at John from over his microscope.

"Tell me, what was it that attracted you to the occupation of being a pirate?"

A spasm of embarrassment crossed Sherlock's face before he collected himself and said, rather dryly, "You've been chatting with Mycroft, I see."

John winked. "Correct."

"A pirate is a perfectly equitable profession. You're thinking of the old-fashioned pirates with gold fillings and swords; piracy, however, is alive and well today." Sherlock carefully pushed his microscope aside and studied John. "You think it's funny."

"I don't," said John, his voice trembling with amusement. "I just keep having this mental image of you in an eye-patch…"

Sherlock frowned, but against his will, his lips twitched and he relaxed into chuckles. "Actually, it is rather funny. Mycroft's a real clot for telling you this, though."

"Oh, I wouldn't say that. In fact, this bit of information made my life!"

Sherlock rumpled his hair, a note of annoyance touching his face.

"You know, Sherlock, you would have been the best bloody pirate there ever was."

Sherlock stopped fussing with his hair, and considered this for a moment. "I would, wouldn't I?"

"And, that, ladies and gentlemen, is as humble as he gets."

Already absorbed in his microscope, Sherlock didn't reply.

"I'm starving, got anything in the fridge?" John rose from the sofa and wandered into the kitchen. He tugged the refrigerator door open and stuck his nose inside. "Urgh!" He recoiled, eyeing a lump of pink flesh swathed in plastic wrap. "Sherlock, tell me that's not a _human _tongue…"

"Of course it is, John. What else did you think it was? Dragon?"

Rolling his eyes, John closed the door. After this unfortunate event, his stomach rejected every idea of food. "Why are there always bits of people lying around the flat? It's really putting me off."

"Scientific reasons," was Sherlock's brief reply.

"But come on—a severed head? That one nearly gave me heart failure!"

"If you'd stop expecting the expected all the time, you wouldn't be so surprised."

"Funny enough, I don't think I'll ever quite get used to seeing a bag of thumbs next to the milk. Shall we do take-out?" John reached for the phone book.

"Not Italian, that's all we ever order."

"No—I order it, and _I_ eat it…you just sit there conducting research. When's the last time you even ate?"

"This morning; I had a cup of tea."

John began rifling through the thin pages of the phone book, shaking his head. "You need to regulate yourself. If you're not careful, Sherlock, you'll end up hospitalized for malnutrition. Maybe I should buy you a few vitamin supplements—"

"Rubbish!"

"It's not rubbish! I'm a doctor, Sherlock; I know what I'm doing!"

"Vitamin supplements," Sherlock muttered sarcastically under his breath. "God."

"Scoff all you want. They're there for a reason."

Sherlock groaned.

"Right, moving on—how about Chinese?"

"Boring."

"How's that boring?"

"It all tastes the same."

John pursed his lips. "Okay… Indian, then?"

"Dull. Predictable." Sherlock pushed his chair back and stood up. "I'm not really in the mood for take-out. Want to go out?"

"To eat? Yeah, okay." John cast an eye around the flat, wondering wear his jacket had gotten to.

Sherlock reached for his own coat and gracefully slipped into it. "Chinese, then?"

"Sherlock! You just said—"

"I merely implied that I didn't want to eat it _in _the flat; going out is a different story."

"You're an idiot, you know that?"

Sherlock smiled and opened the door.

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**Another evening with Sherlock...:P **

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**-Spark Writer-**


	7. What He'll Do for a Friend

It was a miserably icy day. John desperately wished he had a scarf in likeness to Sherlock's; he was freezing.

"Why," he asked through gritted teeth, "do we have to go to St. Bart's today? So you can dissect a corpse, or something?"

"Lestrade called; there's been a most cryptic murder. He suspects poison, yet there were no traces of chemical substance detected during autopsy." Sherlock skirted a group of gabbling Americans, a crease appearing between his brows.

John smiled inwardly at the detective's look of distain. "Don't like tourists, then?"

"Not at all."

"I don't mind them. They're just curious, I suppose."

"Yes, John, but you have the patience for curiosity. I don't."

"You're always curious."

"I'm not curious! I probe, inquire, and uncover. There's a difference, John, a _big _one."

"Of course there is." Not in the mood for a row, John rubbed his upper arms furiously when he was sure Sherlock wasn't looking. A chill wind lifted the hair from his forehead. _Why couldn't Sherlock have hailed a cab?_

"I'd assume it was arsenic poison, but really—you'd have to be an idiot to not have run a test for that. Incidentally—"

John lost all ability to focus as the frigid January temperatures seeped under his coat and down his neck. It was times like this that he realized just how intelligent Sherlock really was for wearing a trench coat, collar turned up. He bowed his forehead against wind, scowling.

"…Quite obvious," Sherlock was saying. He looked around at John, and narrowed his steely eyes. "You're not listening." He didn't pout, exactly, but his lips turned down as thought tugged by some invisible hand.

"Sorry." John straightened, and increased his strides, determined to keep up with Sherlock. He knew not to mention his current state of discomfort; Sherlock would think it far too trivial. "Sorry, what were you saying?" His eyes wandered to a unoccupied cab that lingered near the curb.

"Never mind, I don't repeat myself."

"Yes, you do."

"When?" Sherlock looked genuinely mystified.

"You're always roaring about how bored you are. And face it, Sherlock, you say that at least three times in a row."

"Occasionally I allow myself to restate certain facts."

"Occasionally," chuckled John.

"Would you be so kind as to shut up?" Sherlock gave John a slight push with his gloved hand. "Look straight ahead—I've just seen Mike in front of that café, and I really don't have a desire to listen to his incessant jabbering this morning.

"I agree." John followed his flat mate as they purposely put themselves on the other side of a large crowd. Having safely passed the coffee shop, John clenched his jaw. He'd look like a complete idiot if his teeth started chattering.

A moment later, Sherlock flicked his gaze at John, frowned slightly, and stopped. "Here." He nimbly slipped out of his coat and draped it over John's shoulders.

"Sherlock, no. You don't have to—you'll be freezing."

"Shut up." Now clad in jeans and a deep purple shirt, John knew Sherlock must regret his decision. Nevertheless, the detective showed no signs of giving in to the frosty weather.

John grinned up at his friend. "Thanks, Sherlock."

"For what?" Sherlock stopped at the curb, treading carefully to avoid patches of ice. "Now, for god's sake, let's hail a cab!"

"Better not be another serial killer—we haven't even eaten lunch!"

"_Ah_, I welcome the thought!" Sherlock gave a giddy little twitch and grinned. "Are you ready?"

"I was born ready!"

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**-Spark Writer-  
**


	8. The Best Sort of Embarrassment

The soldier and detective sat in their customary window seat in Angelo's restaurant. John was eagerly tucking into his meal, while Sherlock picked at his own food. Delicate, some would call it.

_Annoying, _thought John. He gently set his fork down on the rim of his plate, and looked at Sherlock. The dark haired man gazed back, faintly brooding.

"What's with you?" asked John.

"Nothing, what are you implying?"

"Never mind." John lifted his half-filled glass of red wine to his lips.

"Why are you drinking that?" Sherlock glowered at the wine.

"What, this? I was in the mood for it."

"You know perfectly well that red wine gives you migraines!"

"I'll…take an aspirin, or something." John winked and downed the glass.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, a paradigm of scorn. "Why do you insist on consuming something that'll give you a splitting headache in the morning? It's quite pig-headed."

"Mood. Atmosphere. Ambience." John shrugged, untroubled. "I happen to enjoy a glass a wine with dinner. At least I don't shove it down your throat. What if I was one of those blokes who downed eight pints an evening?"

"I'd toss you into a snow bank." Sherlock flicked a curl off one eyebrow, and unconsciously arranged his hair.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

John used his fork to wave in Sherlock's general direction. "Don't try to be so perfect all the time."

"I'm not perfect, and I certainly don't try to be."

John's eyes wandered down to rest on the top half of Sherlock's two-piece suit. He was model worthy, all dark, lithe and subtly fashionable. Maybe fashionable wasn't the right word, but it was clear to John that Sherlock had put thought into his appearance. He dragged his gaze up to his flat mate's face, and saw—oddly—a faint blush spreading over Sherlock's porcelain cheekbones. Momentarily unable to look away, John studied those familiar grey eyes and noticed, for the first time, pewter flecks beneath the usual pale silver-blue. He wasn't interested in men—he really wasn't—but he could appreciate the unconventional attractiveness that Sherlock possessed. Perhaps he'd appreciated it all the time, at a private, subconscious level. For if he allowed himself to think these thoughts, things were sure to become tangled.

"What?" Sherlock barked, jolting John from his reverie.

"Er, nothing. Quick question—" John paused, mentally standing on the brink of an impossibly steep precipice. He made the choice to jump. "Have you ever kissed anyone?"

Sherlock blinked. "Excuse me?"

"Have you ever _kissed_ anyone?" John spoke slowly and clearly, as though to a temperamental toddler.

"This is irrelevant, John! If I have or haven't kissed anyone, it shouldn't make any difference to you!"

A mousy looking woman from the nearest table glanced at Sherlock and went pink.

"I'm not interrogating you, Sherlock. It was just a simple question. Here, pretend I'm collecting data for a science experiment. I'll ask you again: have you ever kissed anyone?" John leaned on his elbows and waited.

"I refuse to participate."

"So you haven't."

"When did I suggest that?"

"So you have." John leaned in a little more, grinning. "This is really fun, Sherlock, I should embarrass you more often."

"I'm not embarrassed or at all insecure! I'm simply tired of your childishness."

"Nice comeback."

"Shut up." Blushing for the second time that evening, Sherlock folded his arms over his chest, defensively.

"It's just—sometimes I sort of wonder where you stand on, er, things like this." John hoped he looked more trite.

"What you mean to ask is this: 'Sherlock, are you really as inhuman as you seem? Do you have a heart, do you have feelings?' To which I would answer, 'Yes, John, I am just as inhuman as I seem, possibly more, though I do have a heart. And feelings. Just not the same primitive ones that you feel with your newest girlfriend." He paused, taking a breath after this enlightening speech. "So, really, John, if that's what you intended to ask me, you could have gone about it much more skillfully."

John was taken aback. Quickly masking his discomfiture, he spoke. "You didn't answer the original question. 'Fess up."

Sherlock straightened his collar, drummed his fingers on the table's edge, and avoided meeting eye-contact with John. Finally, he said, "Quite honestly, no. I've never kissed anyone, not even my mother. I'm not the affectionate sort; I assume you've deduced that already." He spoke with a kind of subdued defiance, and John found himself with a new respect for the detective.

"You're plenty affectionate, Sherlock. I doubt you've ever made tea for anyone other than me."

"That's called manners, John. Don't confuse the two."

John grinned fondly at Sherlock. "Thanks for being honest."

"Right, of course."

There was an awkward pause.

"You know what, John?"

"Hmm?"

"I need a pint."

"I thought you'd bloody never ask." John stood, throwing on his jacket. "And hey, your situation might change tonight."

"I'm not kissing anybody, John."

"You never know. Maybe some pretty woman will start chatting you up at the bar."

"Oh, God. You're so dim, sometimes. How many times have I told you—_that's not my area!"_

"What is your area, then?"

"I'll tell you when…_if _I meet the right person. Until then—put a cork in it!"

"Git," said John. He reached for his wallet.

"No need." Sherlock carefully laid his card on the table. "Dinner's on me, tonight."

"Ah, come on, I'm feeling virtuous!"

"I'll remind you of that next time you have to wash the dishes." Sherlock smirked at his blogger. "And for the record, if my 'circumstances' do change, you'll never know."

"Yeah? Why's that?"

Sherlock whipped his scarf round his neck. "Because I don't kiss and tell."

"Prat."

* * *

**You know what to do...:P**

**-Spark Writer-  
**


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